


The Fox and the Formal Apology

by fennecfawkes



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Burritos, Costumes, Excessive Banter, Halloween, M/M, Pre-Canon, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-23 04:25:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2534120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fennecfawkes/pseuds/fennecfawkes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Halloween story in which Clint is clever, Phil likes pun costumes, and both of them are just precious. Characters are Marvel's, not mine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fox and the Formal Apology

**Author's Note:**

> Clint Barton bringing Phil Coulson burritos is my trope now.
> 
> Happy Halloween!

“And what are you supposed to be?”

The sound of Clint’s voice is accompanied by the noise a burrito, freshly made and tightly wrapped, makes when it hits the corner of Phil’s desk. It’s a noise Phil’s come to know well in the past year or so. Actually, come to think of it, it’s a year to the day now, since Clint claimed he only got Phil a burrito last year because it was Halloween and Chipotle sold them for cheap if you wore a costume. That doesn’t explain all the burritos that followed, and there have been many. It took Clint a while to get Phil’s order exactly right, not because Clint’s memory is anything but flawless, but because he wanted Phil to try and enjoy barbacoa.

“It’s the best thing they have going for them, sir,” he’d said the first time he foisted a barbacoa burrito on Phil. Clint was still Barton at the time, though that changed shortly after, just as it had for Jasper and Maria years before. There was a line between work friends and actual friends, and Clint found his way across it in due time. “Just try it once.”

“I specifically asked for carnitas.”

“I’m doing you a favor. And I paid, anyway.”

“I’ll owe you a beer next time I’m out of the office at a reasonable hour.”

“So never?” Clint smirked. “Doesn’t seem fair.”

Now, though, his office is filled with the sweet (OK, savory, maybe) smell of carnitas, and Clint’s standing in the doorway. Aside from the fluffy ears and black mask pushed up on his forehead, it doesn’t look like he’s put much effort into his costume this year.

Phil holds up his tie. “I’m a formal apology,” he says, gesturing to the name tag stuck to his tie. It reads “I’M SORRY.”

“Clever,” says Clint. “Lazy.”

“Says the man wearing ears and a mask. You’re not even wearing the mask properly. You do know how masks work, don’t you?”

“Ha. You’re on a roll today, sir.” Clint will call him Phil when they’re not in the field or at HQ, but he doesn’t want to give anyone the impression that Phil plays favorites. (Does Phil play favorites? Absolutely. He knows it, and Clint knows it, but Clint pretends not to, and that’s what matters.)

Clint walks into the office but doesn’t flop down on Phil’s couch, as is his normal pattern. “But as you can see, it’s not just the ears and the mask.” He twirls around slowly, much slower than necessary, really, because Phil tries his best not to feel ... things regarding Clint, and that’s hard to do when he can see Clint’s ass. And shoulders. And arms. From all angles. He can also see a poofy tail.

“A fox, then.”

“A fox.” Clint nods and unclips the tail from the back of his pants. Black pants, with a grey SHIELD Academy shirt, because apparently he couldn’t even be bothered to wear orange. A shame, really, since Clint’s Halloween costumes are usually so elaborate.

“Why the change of pace?”

Clint practically falls onto the couch, sprawling out but being careful not to touch the fabric with his boots as he props his ankles up on the arm. “Natasha said she was sick to death of Robin Hood and other guys with arrows,” he says. “So I bent to her will.” He passes the tail from one hand to the other.

“But not really,” says Phil. “Has she seen the Disney _Robin Hood_?”

Clint grins. “No, she has not. I knew I liked you for a reason.”

“You like me for many, many reasons, Barton.” Phil picks up the burrito and peels away the corner of the foil. “I’m going to eat this like a complete savage. I hope you realize that.”

“I’ve seen you eat a burrito before, sir,” says Clint. “It’s never savage. Passionate, maybe. But not savage.” He points at Phil. “You’re not ruining silk with that name tag, are you?”

Phil hurries to swallow a too-large mouthful of carnitas and cheese and carbohydrate overload before waving his hand dismissively, saying, “No, this is a burner tie.”

“A burner tie,” Clint repeats. “You have burner ties?”

“Yes. For just such occasions,” says Phil. “And for jobs that don’t require a tac suit but might get messy.”

“What’s it made of?”

“Does it matter?”

“When you got tomatillo salsa on a tie a couple months ago, you told me where the silk it was made of came from. And before you say anything, that totally wasn’t my fault. The B squad was on duty that day.” The thought of that tie—alternating split weave stripes in brown and blue and grey, pure silk, woven in Italy, purchased at Brooks Brothers in Chelsea—getting ruined still rankles. But the thought that Clint grades Chipotle’s employees cheers Phil up. Slightly.

“I’m guessing this is a silk/cotton blend, if you really want to know,” says Phil. “But I didn’t think too hard about it.”

“That’s why it coordinates with your socks?”

“How can you even see my socks?”

“In this morning’s briefing, you were hurrying so I didn’t get to ask about your costume, but I did see you stand up and you stretched your arms above your head and—” Usually, it’s Phil who’s struggling not to look embarrassed around Clint. But right now, it’s the other way around. And that’s interesting. That’s very interesting indeed. “Hey, sir?”

“Yes, Clint?” (Phil’s OK with giving the impression that he plays favorites, especially since his very favorite may have just shown his hand, and it’s not like there’s anyone else around anyway.)

“Can you just—can we strike that last statement from the record?”

“The one you didn’t finish?”

“Yeah, that one.” Clint—and there’s no better way to describe it—seems to collapse in on himself then, moving his feet to the floor before drawing both legs up, folded at the ankles like a child. “Because—I mean, I’d rather you not think I’m, like, creepy. Checking you out or whatever. I just—I see things.”

“Clint.” Phil breathes out heavily. “Do you really think I would have a problem with you looking at me?”

“What?” Clint does look at him then, has been this whole time, really, but now he’s focused. Phil’s never minded being Clint’s focus. And it’s a shame Clint (apparently) hasn’t realized that. “I—”

“Can you close the door?”

“It’s 7, sir.”

“Phil,” Phil corrects him. “And do it anyway. Maria said she was staying late tonight so she could come in hung over at 10 tomorrow. Please don’t tell her or Nick I said that.”

“Sure, I won’t tell Nick anything,” says Clint, smirking, and Phil hopes that means Clint’s not too terrified of whatever’s coming next. Phil is. Kind of. Thrilled, too. Obviously. Because this has been a long time coming, maybe since the first burrito, maybe even before that. Phil knows that. And Clint should, too. He’s starting to understand, Phil thinks, as Clint un-pretzels himself and swings the door shut and joins Phil behind his desk, leaning against the windowsill. Phil swivels to face him. The shades are open, for once, and Manhattan looks like it always does when the sun has set—just bright enough to be called vibrant rather than obnoxious.

“Burritos aren’t always foreplay, you know,” says Clint, and it’s so unexpected and goofy and _Clint_ that Phil can’t help laughing. Clint smiles back, still looking not quite certain of what’s going on. Which, well, this is getting ridiculous.

“Are burritos ever foreplay?” Phil asks.

“Depends.” Clint steps closer to Phil, and Phil, working purely on instinct, reaches for Clint’s hands, taking them in his own, pulling Clint to him. Clint, as though the puzzle pieces are clicking into place for him, settles onto Phil’s lap, one leg on either side of his, face tilted down toward Phil’s. “Are you planning on having your way with me?”

Phil groans. “I was considering it till you put it that way.”

“Ouch. And I thought you cared.”

Phil rolls his eyes and drops Clint’s hands. Clint’s expression goes from amused to confused to very, very pleased in a matter of seconds as Phil moves his hands to the back of Clint’s neck, pulling lightly.

“You don’t have to be careful with me, si—Phil,” Clint says, and then he adds, “If you don’t kiss me, I’m going to have to kiss you.” He hesitates. “Assuming this isn’t against some rule.”

Phil shakes his head. “No rules against active field agents dating, although it might not be appropriate to have me as your handler anymore.”

“Strange. You’d think that would make it even more appropriate.”

Phil shakes his head. “Didn’t you say something about kissing?”

Clint answers him by closing what little distance there is between them. The first kiss is chaste, just one closed mouth pressing against another. The second is less so as Clint parts his lips and Phil follows suit, his tongue tentatively exploring the inside of Clint’s mouth, drawing a gasp from Clint. The third borders on dirty, all tangled tongues and sharp-but-not-too-sharp teeth and soft grunting noises from both sides. The fourth has Phil panting in a way he thinks sounds pathetic and Clint seems to quite like, judging from the pressure ever growing against Phil’s thigh.

“I was going to suggest we take it slow,” says Phil when they take a break, one he’s hoping is brief—or, better, one that leads to the two of them going somewhere that isn’t his office, somewhere truly private. “But I think I like your idea better.”

“My idea?” Clint scoffs. His face is red and his eyes are dark and Phil’s never wanted to make up for lost time quite so badly in his life. “You told me to close the door.”

“You noticed my socks.”

“You let me call you by your first name.”

“You brought me a burrito.”

“True,” Clint concedes. “And I don’t bring just anyone burritos. Only my favorites. Favorite.”

Phil can’t pinpoint exactly when this went from hot to sweet, but he can work with it. “You’re mine, too.”

“I know,” says Clint. “But it’s good to hear you say it. Would you—do you want to go somewhere else?”

“My apartment’s 22 minutes away by cab.”

“Perfect.”

“You can leave the tail here, too.”

“So it wasn’t that, then?” Clint asks, standing and tugging Phil to his feet. “That wasn’t what pushed you over the edge?”

“No, Clint, it wasn’t the tail,” says Phil. “It was just you.”

Clint smiles broadly and rocks forward on his heels, kissing Phil, hard and fast and perfect. And for a while after that, they don’t say much of anything at all, just grasp each other’s hand as they leave HQ and Phil feeds the cab driver his address and Clint leans into him on the way home (Phil’s home, maybe Clint’s home in time, but that’s jumping the gun a bit, and unless Clint gets him very drunk, Phil has no intent to say it out loud) and Phil’s pretty sure this is the most satisfied silence he’s ever been part of.

“Happy Halloween,” he wishes the driver as they hop out of the car and ascend the stairs to Phil’s loft. Clint’s been there before, he’s been there plenty of times, but it’s never been like this, Clint smiling in a way that somehow toes the line between shy and sexy as Phil heads toward the bedroom.

“Hey,” he says to Clint as he reaches to open the door. “Are you—”

“Phil,” says Clint, “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

“Oh. Right. Should we—”

“Yes,” Clint says emphatically, and Phil takes it at face value as Clint practically pushes him into the bedroom. “We should. And then we should again, as soon as we’re both ready. And then we’re calling in with fake hangovers in the morning.”

“Well, maybe we’re not doing that,” says Phil. Clint does push him then—down onto his bed, something Phil isn’t at all opposed to, and then Clint’s climbing over him, leaning down to kiss him before shaking his head and saying, “You’re kind of a workaholic, you know that, right?” He pulls back and goes to work on Phil’s belt, deftly unclasping it and pulling it from the loops at the waist of his pants. “But I can help you with that. Among other things.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Clint looks at him. “If you’ll let me.”

“I’ll let you as long as you want to,” says Phil, and he’s not sure if he really meant to say it out loud, but now Clint’s grinning and tugging his shirt over his head and unbuttoning Phil’s fly, and Phil’s beginning to think he should speak his mind more often.

After all, it got him here, didn’t it?


End file.
